Starry, Starry Night
by Lady Dudley
Summary: Based on an episode of 'The Body Farm': Sherlock doesn't deal so well with his diagnosis of dementia. Established Sherlolly.


**A/N: I watched episode five of the BBC crime drama _The Body Farm_ today and was inspired by the scene where the 'murder' victim attempts to take his own life to escape from his dementia, which I have Sherlolly-fied here. Most of the dialogue at the beginning comes from the episode, although changed slightly. It turned out a little differently to how I was intending, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

_**Starry, Starry Night**_

…  
_For they could not love you  
But still your love was true  
And when no hope was left inside  
On that starry, starry night  
You took your life as lovers often do  
But I could have told you Vincent  
This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you_  
-'Vincent (Starry, Starry Night),' Don McLean  
…

Sherlock regarded the pistol in his hands thoughtfully and wondered if he could really do this, but then he considered how much better it would be for her if he died as the man he was than as the shell he would eventually become.

He raised the gun to his temple, just as Molly entered the room.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, clearly horrified as she rushed towards him.

Sherlock looked up at her miserably, she wasn't supposed to be here.

"I'm taking the coward's way out," he told her quietly, lowering the gun to his lap, "because I know what happens. It happened to my father and it gets worse, there is no cure." Molly dropped to her knees in front of him, "This way I'm not _quite_ the coward," he made to raise the gun again, but Molly gripped his hand.

"No," she said urgently, "come on, let's discuss this."

"There's nothing to discuss," he told her sullenly.

Molly raised a hand to his cheek, "All the things we were going to do…"

He smiled softly at her, "We were going to be so happy."

"We will be. I'll help you," she promised, raising her other hand to cup his face.

"You'll do that?" Sherlock whispered, "You'll feed me? Clean up after me?"

She nodded, her eyes bright with unshed tears, "Yes, I will."

"Well I don't want you to," he told her, his voice tinged with anger, "that's _exactly_ what I do not want!" he yelled, breaking from her hold and striding over to the window.

Molly sniffed, "Ok," she said slowly, "when you get worse I'll leave you."

Sherlock closed his eyes with a sigh, before coming back to join her on the floor.

"You're such a bad liar," he told her softly, cupping her face in his free hand. He stroked her cheek with his thumb, "I won't love you anymore," he explained gently, "after loving you for so long…" he trailed off, his voice breaking slightly. "I won't know who you are, it's…it's my version of hell," he confessed, a lone tear running down his cheek.

"It won't have to be," she insisted, wiping the tear away as her own tears started to fall and she cupped his face in her hands again.

"Can't you understand?" he demanded quietly, "I'm already there," he insisted, tapping his temple with the barrel of the gun. He covered her hands with his own and looked deeply into her eyes, "_Please_, let me go…"

She was crying freely now, hiccupping as she returned his intense gaze.

"I…I…" she took a deep breath, "please, Sherlock…don't leave me," she begged, her voice barely above a whisper as she collapsed into him, sobbing.

Sherlock clutched her tightly to his chest, burying his face in her hair.

"Three months from now I won't even remember your name," he whispered in her ear after a long moment, "please, let me die as I am: as the man who loves you."

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes," she said softly, squeezing her eyes shut as she clung to him, "and I will _always_ love you, even if you forget me."

"Molly, I refuse to become a burden on you," he told her, pulling away so that he could see her face. "I want you to live a full and happy life, to find a man who loves you and have lots of babies," he said with a small smile.

Molly shook her head, "I don't want those things with anyone else but you."

"So stubborn," he murmured.

"Look who's talking," she retorted.

"This is the right thing to do, Molly," he told her seriously, his face hardening a little, "my mind is all I have."

He got to his feet, ignoring Molly's protests and easily evaded her grasp as he lifted the gun to his head once more.

"No!" Molly screamed as she lunged for the gun and-

-landed with an audible thud on the floor beside her bed.

She blinked in surprise as she looked around, trying to process her surroundings; she was just beginning to relax when a shape loomed out of the darkness above her and she gave a terrified shriek.

The bedside lamp snapped on and Molly found herself face to face with a slightly dishevelled Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock!" she cried in delight, jumping up and hugging him around the neck, knocking him onto his back in the process. "You're alive," she added, still hugging him tightly.

"Obviously," came his muffled reply, "are you all right?"

She shifted so that she was looking down at him, "I am now," she replied, pecking him on the lips, "but please don't make me watch _The Body Farm_ before we go to bed in future."

"I didn't think dead bodies would bother you, considering your profession," he replied, furrowing his brow slightly in confusion.

Molly shook her head, smiling, "It wasn't the dead bodies, you silly man," she told him, "it was the idea of you being one of them." She suppressed a shudder, "The victim reminded me of you a little too much."

"I apologise for giving you nightmares," he said softly with a rueful smile as he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

Molly smiled as she settled down with her head tucked under his chin, "That's all right," she said "but next time we're watching something fluffier."

"Fluffier?"

Molly nodded, "Mm-hm, something without any murders," she stipulated with a yawn.

Sherlock looked mildly horrified at the thought, "None at all?"

"Well, maybe ones that aren't quite so graphic," she amended, drowsily.

Sherlock gave a small, satisfied nod, "Good."

Molly made no response, Sherlock looked down and released she was fast asleep. He smiled as he turned off the light.

"Sweet dreams, Molly," he whispered, kissing the top of her head.

Soon both the pathologist and her consulting detective were fast asleep.


End file.
